


your mess is mine

by Damkianna



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Antagonism, Awkward Conversations, Bad Decisions, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frenemies with Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension, emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27877861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Post-canon: four times Joey and Mitch took care of each other in various ways, plus the time they realized they both might kind of want to keep doing it.
Relationships: Mitch McDeere/Joey Morolto Jr.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	your mess is mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> ♥
> 
> Title borrowed from the song of the same name by Vance Joy.

**one.**

Joey's drunk.

Not _too_ drunk. If anything, in point of fact, he's not drunk enough. But he's got everything he needs to fix that: a shot glass, an open bottle of amaretto he's already about a quarter of the way through, and the whole first floor of the restaurant to himself. It's one in the morning, which means there's nobody around except a handful of guys on watch—and they're on the roof, or half a block down out front and out back. Can't be too careful, now that it's not just the Russians Joey's got to worry about, but the motherfucking FBI, too.

Christ. The shit McDeere gets him into.

Joey snorts, pours himself another shot, and knocks it back.

Might not be fair to blame McDeere. Strictly speaking, it's Joey's insistence on McDeere clearing Patrick that led them to Kurylenko, and trying to nail Kurylenko to the wall in Patrick's place is what's got them on the FBI's shitlist. Without McDeere—would Joey have managed to track down Kurylenko? Maybe, maybe not. And if he had, he wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting an assist from the US Marshals. As it is, he's got one federal agency like halfway on his side, which is halfway further than he's ever had one before.

But it _feels_ like McDeere's fault. Basically everything that's ever happened to Joey has felt like McDeere's fault, one way or another, and Joey's not too interested in forgiving him for any of it.

McDeere's not getting off the hook until Joey's good and ready. He's got McDeere right where he wants him, and he's not letting go anytime soon; and if there's something about that thought that feels—sideways, something tight and strange and hot in his gut when it shouldn't be, well, he's drunk.

He laughs a little, into the still air, the empty room, and pours himself some more amaretto. It's good stuff, expensive. Aptly named shit, amaretto. _Amaro_ said with knowing fondness; bitter, but gentle enough about it to go down smooth, to trick you into wanting it anyway.

Supposed to be a bad sign, isn't it, drinking alone? But if that were the worst problem Joey had to deal with, he'd be leading a charmed goddamn life. As it is, it's a gigantic fucking relief to be able to do this: sit here in a booth with half the lights off, nobody to impress, nobody to show off for, nobody he's got to figure out how to scare so they won't get it in their head to try to kill him in his sleep. When he's alone, he doesn't have to be the boss. He doesn't have to know exactly what to say, exactly what to do. He doesn't have to be in control of every single thing going on around him every second. He can just close his eyes, and breathe, and drink.

A sound. Joey tenses, fingers sliding on the shot glass. Then he hears it again—not footsteps, not anybody inside. A knock, or not even that; half of one, maybe.

And there's no way anyone got to the front door of this place without Joey's guys seeing them do it.

So it's not the Russians, and it's definitely not the Feds. Nobody dangerous. But that doesn't mean Joey's got to let them in. Whoever the hell they are, they can wait till daylight.

"Fuck off," he shouts, and tosses back what's in the shot glass.

A rattle. Like somebody's actually trying to force the goddamn door, jesus.

Joey sneers, lets the empty shot glass settle onto the table with a ringing note and grips the bottle of amaretto by the neck, and pushes himself unsteadily up out of the booth.

"Fuck off or I will shoot you in the fucking face," he repeats, emphatic, only stumbling a little bit. His feet just aren't quite where he expects them to be when he expects them to be there, is all. It's fine.

He makes it to the door, and takes a swig of amaretto straight out of the bottle before he bothers trying to squint through the glass. It's dark out there—city-dark, at least, dim haze filling up the sky, but it's not enough to counter the part where the only actual light is behind Joey, streetlights too far away to help him see past the dull outline of his own reflection.

And then, suddenly, he's—it's McDeere.

McDeere swayed forward, that's what it is; got close enough to the glass to swim out of the dark and into temporary clarity. He looks like shit.

Joey stares at him, and takes another contemplative slug of amaretto, and then opens the door.

"You look like shit, McDeere."

McDeere swallows, and rubs a hand across his face. "What the hell am I doing here?" he says, and he's not asking Joey.

"Beats me," Joey answers anyway, raising his eyebrows. He looks McDeere over more carefully: bloodshot eyes, flushed face, tie askew; ruffled hair, and he's still swaying a little in place, like his legs aren't quite steady under him. "Are you drunk? What the hell happened?"

McDeere's eyes fall shut. He doesn't answer.

He's drunk. Maybe even drunker than Joey. Drunk, and fucked up somehow or other, and Joey's got every reason in the world to slam the door in his face and laugh.

He ought to _want_ to. It ought to be tempting, the barest fraction of what McDeere deserves but satisfying in its own right.

Joey wets his lips, tightens his hand around the smooth cool glass of the bottle and then finds himself lifting it. "You like amaretto?"

"Not really," McDeere says grimly, and then takes it out of his hand—brings the mouth of it to his lips and tips it back, and if Joey were sober he might have half a chance at managing not to watch McDeere's throat work, but as it is he's fucked.

"Okay, all right, don't drown yourself," Joey says, belated, because chugging it like that is a waste of good liquor.

Mitch swings the bottle down again, drawing in air like he'd almost forgotten he needed it for a minute there, and then he blinks and rubs at his eyes with the back of his free hand, shoves the amaretto in Joey's general direction. He overshoots a little, and for a second he's pressing his knuckles into Joey's chest, the line of Joey's shirt-buttons, the bottle's dull corners nudging Joey's ribs.

"Jesus, this was a bad idea," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

And he really is drunker than Joey, because he doesn't get more than a half-step back toward the street before Joey's caught up, and grabs the amaretto with one hand and McDeere's elbow with the other.

"Oh, no you don't, pal," Joey says, in the patronizing tone McDeere hates the most. "I got up out of my perfectly nice booth, I came all the way over here, I opened the door for you, I let you drink my amaretto—if you think you aren't goddamn well coming in after all that, you better think again."

For a couple seconds, McDeere just stands there. Joey's expecting him to push it, because he always does; the only threat he's ever taken seriously, coming from Joey, was the first one, the one Joey used to rope him into this mess, his life and his safety and his family all stacked on top of each other. Nothing less has ever tipped the scales with him.

But he stands there, and Joey looks at him and thinks suddenly: shit, he looks exhausted. He looks done. He looks like a man who wants nothing more than to walk into a quiet empty room with a single light on, at one in the morning, and drink until he can't feel his face.

"Come on," Joey says, quieter than he meant to.

McDeere swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut for a beat. And when Joey tugs on his elbow, he follows the motion; he gives way. He comes inside.

Joey herds him back to the booth, the shot glass sitting there marking Joey's place. Perfect, Joey thinks. McDeere can drink from the glass, and Joey can keep the bottle.

And if there's something he likes a little too much about the idea of pouring for McDeere, well, he can tell himself it's about doling out what he's decided McDeere gets to have, making McDeere dependent on his whims. It doesn't have to have anything to do with—serving McDeere; _providing_ for McDeere, getting to give McDeere something McDeere wants—

No fucking way.

Besides, it's not like McDeere's going to know it. McDeere doesn't give half a shit what Joey does or why. So it's fine.

Joey slides into the booth, takes a swallow of amaretto from the bottle and then twists it around and splashes some into the glass for McDeere—and if he likes the thought of McDeere having to drink something his mouth has touched by proxy, well, McDeere doesn't need to know that, either.

McDeere stands next to the table staring down at the shot glass for a moment, like he's stuck. And then he falters, folds: comes down on the edge of the other side of the booth like he's going to get up again any second, and takes the glass, and downs what's in it.

"So," Joey says. "What brings you to my doorstep at this hour? Nothing good, I'm guessing."

McDeere gives him a wary look over the edge of the shot glass, but his eyes are hazy with booze, pinched and tired instead of sharp like usual; it doesn't have the effect he's probably hoping for.

Can't be about the Russians, Joey surmises, that's old news. Probably not about the FBI, either. It's been a couple weeks since that bombshell. If McDeere were going to have a breakdown over it, he'd have done it then.

Can't be a case, either. He hasn't taken any new ones lately—probably worrying himself sick that the Russians might go after his clients if they can't get to him, because that's what McDeere's like. Fucking McDeere.

"She left you, huh," Joey says aloud.

McDeere flinches. Maybe surprised Joey guessed so fast; maybe just unprepared to hear it said to his face. Joey makes a face, a parody of sympathy, and pours some more amaretto into the shot glass.

"Took the kid? Or no?" Joey squints across the table at McDeere, and makes an assessment: "Took the kid."

"It's temporary," McDeere protests feebly. "We're—separated. Separating," he amends, like it's an ongoing process, like even as they sit here McDeere's wife and daughter are busy somewhere, sawing away, cutting themselves loose.

"Oh, Mitch," Joey murmurs, and fills the shot glass right to the brim. "It's going to last as long as the reasons she had for doing it. Those going anywhere anytime soon?"

McDeere grimaces, picks up the shot glass, and knocks it back.

That's an answer, Joey figures.

What was it? Did McDeere tell his wife about the FBI? Was that the final straw? Or did she just figure out the same thing Joey has: that McDeere might have taken Patrick's case because Joey threatened everything he cares about, but once they turned up Kurylenko—once McDeere understood that Patrick really has been innocent all along—McDeere wasn't going to be able to let it go? Too goddamn stubborn. She must've known it when she married him; maybe she'd just assumed that there was some kind of sane limit on it.

Or maybe she'd known there wasn't, but she'd hung on as long as she could anyway, hoping she was wrong.

"Can't blame her," he murmurs absently, tipping the bottle back for another swig himself. "I'd make a run for it myself, if I thought it would help."

McDeere looks at him.

Joey smiles, thin, and lifts the bottle, clinks it against the empty shot glass McDeere's still clutching in one unsteady hand.

"Don't worry, McDeere," he says, too gentle. "You'll be fine. I'm a man of my word. Once your job's done, you're out. You can go find her then, make it up to her. Might take a while, but you'll make it."

McDeere snorts, lets his eyes fall shut and covers them with his free hand for a second. "Unless Karpov has me shot in the head, sure," he mutters.

"He won't," Joey says.

McDeere lets the hand drop, looks up. Jesus, his eyes are so fucking blue.

"You know something I don't?"

"Apparently," Joey agrees with a laugh, huffing a breath through his nose, and then takes another drink of amaretto. "Karpov's not going to kill you, McDeere." He leans forward and smiles, real wide, real slow, letting his eyes rove all over McDeere's face. "If anybody's going to, it's me." He tilts his head, and feels something that's almost fondness steal its way through him, sharp and warm and softly bitter: _amaretto_. "Like I'd let anybody else put a bullet in you. Please."

McDeere's staring at him, those blue eyes wide, mouth red and still a little wet with amaretto, just barely parted. Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch; his throat works, for a second.

"Gee," he says at last. "Thanks. I feel so much better now."

"You're welcome," Joey says sweetly, and pours into McDeere's glass again, tops it off with a flourish before putting the bottle back to his own mouth.

He drinks. McDeere does too, after a second; and he does it without looking away from Joey.

* * *

**two.**

Mitch has a hell of a lot of paperwork to keep track of. Patrick's case file would be enough on its own, with all the court documentation and copies of police records, motions and evidence submitted, Mitch's own background research and everything Ray's ever managed to turn up. Then there's everything Louis has grudgingly agreed he's allowed to turn over about the Marshals' investigation into Karpov, Kurylenko, the FBI.

So there's a lot of it, and some of it is pretty goddamn important. There's no way Mitch and Ray can secure Mitch's offices well enough to guarantee nobody can get to it, and Mitch's house isn't any better.

It just makes sense to keep it at Joey's.

And if that gives Mitch an excuse to go to the restaurant—to spend hours and hours there, instead of in his silent, empty house—then so be it. Nobody's called him on it yet.

It's funny, almost. Backwards. That somehow Joey Morolto's office has become a refuge, one where Mitch goes to avoid his own home.

But it's true. True enough, deep enough down, that Mitch can't laugh at it.

This is the fourth night this week he's ended up sitting here behind a desk until ten o'clock at night. Because as much as he hates wondering what might or might not be going on downstairs, who Joey might have bloodied up and tied to a chair today, there's—there's nowhere else he can bear to be that's any better.

He flips aside a page, rubs his eyes and lets them wander down the next, and he's got his fingers at the corner, about to flip again, before he actually realizes what he's looking at.

He got to the bottom of his own stack. This paperwork was on the desk underneath it. This paperwork is Joey's.

It's for the restaurant.

Mitch blinks, sits up a little straighter and scans it more carefully. Louis had said something to him once about Joey, that he was pissing his own guys off by listening to Patrick—by wanting to take his family's business interests and make them legitimate, legal. Joey had said it too, later. And then the second Mitch had asked him to actually treat anything he did like a legal business venture, Joey had promised offhandedly to come up with whatever he needed to prove it, in a way that had made it sound the opposite of legal.

At the time, Mitch had figured even if he had meant it, he didn't really understand what it would take. That he'd liked the sound of it, maybe, liked the idea of telling himself he was a new kind of don, but there was no way he was actually going to stick to it.

But this—this is for the restaurant. Proper registration, accreditation, a printed packet covering the requirements to pass inspection. A _real_ inspection, presumably, because no way would Joey need this if he were planning to smile and nod and send a health inspector's kids to college.

Most of it isn't filled out.

Mitch looks at it.

He could leave it alone. It's not his problem, not his job. Joey hasn't asked him to look at it. It probably isn't even supposed to be here, got shuffled under a briefcase of hundred-dollar bills or something and ended up left on the desk by mistake.

But—it would make sense for him to go ahead and take care of it. Wouldn't it? He's stuck with Joey until Patrick's case has been won, until the Russians and the FBI are off their backs; Joey's the only thing short of going into witness protection, _again_ , that's going to keep Mitch in one piece. Minimizing the number of Joey's criminal enterprises that Mitch is actively trapped being party to is probably for the best.

It's enlightened self-interest, he tells himself.

But he can't help remembering it anyway. Joey's face, that day. _I became everything I never wanted to be._

Mitch did the right thing. He knows he did. Joey Morolto, Sr, had earned that trip to prison about a thousand times over. It wasn't wrong of Mitch to make it happen. It wasn't wrong of Mitch to tell the truth, and expose wrongdoing, and send criminals to jail. He can't apologize for it.

But Joey's a little bit his fault because of it. He _did_ change the course of Joey's life, even if he didn't know he was doing it. He did the right thing, and in doing it he shoved Joey into a trap that Joey can't get out of by himself.

Joey thinks Patrick's going to help him pry it open. But Mitch can help him, too.

Mitch sits there, and feels his mouth twist up, helplessly wry.

This is the same goddamn thing that always gets him into trouble, the reason he's a defense attorney for life. He looks at people, and he sees who they could be, the versions of themselves they'll only get the chance to become if their lives aren't defined by the worst thing they've ever done.

If Joey meant it, if he's serious about going legit after all—then he should get a shot at it. Mitch has to believe that; the kind of person who could is the kind of person he _does_ want to be, and he's not about to let Joey Morolto change that.

He flips back to the top sheet on the pile, smooths it absently down. And then he picks up a pen, and gets to work.

* * *

**three.**

McDeere's really got a bug up his ass about something.

Joey sits back, and listens to him rant. That'll make it worse, make him angrier—yeah, there it is, the flash in the eyes that says that McDeere noticed the movement, that Joey's show of casual unconcern got him right where Joey intended it to.

"—can't afford for you to go around _kidnapping_ people—"

"Is that what's got you so worked up?" Joey inquires, tilting his head. "Look, you said we needed Kurylenko in custody to make our case, and there was no way in hell Karpov was going to just hand him over. I took care of it."

McDeere's jaw clenches, the muscle jumping. "You killed two federal agents."

Joey raises his eyebrows. "Mitch, I'm hurt. You've hurt me. I thought you knew me better than that. For one, I was nowhere near that warehouse."

"Really," McDeere says, dripping with bitter skepticism.

Joey sits up straight in his chair, and makes a face like he's surprised.

He's not; his heart's pounding, heavy and hard in his chest, but that's not why. God, he should've killed McDeere months ago, _years_ ago, and he's going to get around to it one of these days, he really is, except it's so fucking easy to put it off when putting it off means he gets to feel like this. There's nobody in the world who pushes like McDeere—not with Joey, anyway. Everybody else Joey pisses off, his enemies or his own guys, it's going to come back to bite him in the shape of a bullet, whether it's into his men or through his restaurant windows or in the back of his own head.

But McDeere? McDeere argues. McDeere gets in his face and fights with him about it, like—

Like he wants to change Joey's mind. Like he thinks he could. Like it's worth the effort to him to try.

Like _Joey's_ worth the effort to him, somehow, even after everything.

And something about that gets Joey's blood up, sparks him awake in his body, like nothing else.

"I think you'll find," Joey says aloud, sweet and pointed, "that witnesses will place me elsewhere."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," McDeere says evenly.

"And besides," Joey adds, "those feds were dirty. You think they had a good explanation for being in a building Karpov owned, standing there right next to Karpov's guys? The FBI isn't going to push on this. They're the ones who can't afford it." He leans forward across the desk, lowers his tone into something warm and confiding. "So take a breath, huh?" And he's got no better reason for what he does next than that his skin's still fizzing, that he likes the way McDeere's face looks all pinked up with frustration, that he _wants_ to: he gives McDeere a long slow onceover, head to feet and back again, and says, "Christ, you need to get laid."

McDeere's mouth twists. "Go fuck yourself," he says, and Joey only has about half a second to absorb his tone—not what Joey was hoping for at all, not lit up and pissed off; tired, if anything, tired and seriously fucking bitter—before McDeere's turning on his heel, and Joey doesn't know exactly what he wanted to happen, but he's pretty sure this wasn't it.

He's up, out of his chair, across the room in time to slap a hand against the door to hold it shut just as McDeere's getting a grip on the knob. McDeere doesn't look at him, doesn't let go; his eyes fall shut, like he really is as exhausted as he sounded a minute ago. "Joey," he says, low.

 _I didn't mean it like that_ , Joey can't say. "You seriously haven't gotten any since she left you?" is the closest he can get, and even that comes out wrong, too soft, not taunting like it should have been.

McDeere's jaw goes all tight again. He doesn't answer.

And, well—figures. McDeere's that kind of guy, isn't he? The kind with rules for himself, standards he's holding himself to. Wouldn't just run out and get his dick wet the second he had the chance, the second his wife crossed state lines. Plenty of guys who would, even if they thought their wives were planning on coming back; but not McDeere.

Joey swallows. He doesn't know what word to give the way it feels to think that, to be aware of that truth. To have McDeere six inches away, hand on the doorknob but not pulling yet, in one of his clean sharp dress shirts like he always wears, _knowing_ he hasn't fucked anybody in at least four months—

Joey's still got one hand on the door, palm crossing from the frame to the flat of it. He's leaning on it a little, holding the door shut.

But the other's free. He lifts it, holds it open, a fraction of an inch from where the crisp shape of McDeere's dress shirt sways in to follow his spine to the small of his back. It hangs there for a second, suspended. Joey feels like he's waiting for a sign from God, a lightning strike to scorch him to black ash for even thinking about it.

But nothing happens. And that's a sign of its own, Joey thinks vaguely, and then settles his hand between the blades of McDeere's shoulders.

Tension clamps itself tight all up and down the line of McDeere's back; McDeere's breath catches in his throat, barely audible. "Joey," he says, sharper, a warning.

Joey wets his lips, and slides his hand down an inch. Then two. Then three.

"Joey—" This time it comes out strained, almost a question. McDeere's turned his head a fraction, eyes open again, looking for Joey; Joey meets the glance, over McDeere's shoulder, and doesn't lift his hand away.

He's at the small of McDeere's back, now. McDeere's face is blank, except for the way his brows are drawing together, the barest wary frown; his eyes are sharp, hard, and so fucking blue.

Joey turns his hand, dips his fingertips down to catch the back of McDeere's waistband, and McDeere jerks a little, twisting away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing," McDeere bites out.

He's still got a hand on the doorknob. But he's not turning it.

Joey affects surprise, raises both eyebrows. "You don't know? Really has been a while, huh."

He switches gears: hooks his thumb in the back of Mitch's slacks, and lets his palm fill with the curve of McDeere's ass instead. That doesn't make McDeere flinch, not again; he doesn't move a muscle, staring at Joey, face like stone.

But there's color rising into his cheeks, flushing along the column of his throat, and Joey's pretty sure it's not because he's pissed.

Not _just_ because he's pissed, anyway.

"Come on," Joey murmurs, and lowers his eyes, gives McDeere a challenging look through the lashes—because sweet would be the wrong tack, with McDeere. Uncertain would be the wrong tack. Get all soft at McDeere, and he turns careful, cautious, _considerate_. He starts thinking, starts trying to make the right choice.

Only way to get him to push, to get him to do something stupid and ill-advised and fucking dangerous, is to push him first.

Joey moves, turns to put a shoulder to the door instead of his hand, which has the not-so-accidental effect of leaving his hip pressed up against McDeere's wrist, where McDeere's still stubbornly hanging onto the goddamn doorknob.

"Joey," McDeere says again—hoarse, this time, which sends a strange hot shiver up Joey's spine.

"Come on," Joey repeats in turn, and leans back into the door, lets his head tip up; it's half a test, except he has no idea what kind of grade to give McDeere for the way his gaze drops to the exposed line of Joey's throat. Their thighs are brushing. Joey leans back a little harder, lets his shoulders slide down an inch or two—gives himself the extra angle to turn that brush into a press, steady weight deliberately shy of where he's hoping McDeere's starting to want it.

McDeere swallows, and doesn't move away. His grip on the doorknob loosens.

Joey presses the advantage, nudges his hand away and moves in front of him for real; and from there it's only one smooth motion, skimming McDeere's hip with shameless greed, to bring his own hand around from McDeere's ass to McDeere's fly.

And there's actually something there waiting for him. McDeere's not hard, exactly. But he's not soft either.

Not that much of a compliment, if McDeere really hasn't gotten any since Mrs. McDeere left the state. But then—

But then that means McDeere hasn't let anybody touch him, except now he's letting Joey. And god, if that isn't satisfying as hell to think.

Joey lets a grin break over his face, smug and pleased, as he rubs his thumb up and down the line McDeere's dick is making in his pants and feels it start to fill out a little. McDeere's breath is hitching. Joey looks up to meet his eyes, and gets about half a second before McDeere's turning his face away, mouth twisting, jaw hard.

Half a second. But McDeere looked—McDeere looked _sick_ , in that half-second.

Joey likes him angry, fired up, even tense. But that look's not anything he was aiming for.

"Oh, relax," he says, mild, cajoling.

McDeere still won't look at him.

Joey bites his lip. He's got one hand on McDeere's fly, but he left the other lingering where it had been braced against the door. He lifts that one, takes McDeere by the chin and brings his face around.

"Let me."

That gets him a glance, finally. Sharp-edged, at first. But then—

Joey doesn't know what it is McDeere sees in his face that changes McDeere's mind. He doesn't think he's doing anything in particular except looking at McDeere. But McDeere's expression changes, and he doesn't look away again, gaze flicking back and forth, weird and intent.

It's uncomfortable, being looked at like that. Like McDeere's really _seeing_ something.

"Come on," Joey says, and he makes it lighter, a little sleazier. "You want it. I know you do. Let me."

It doesn't work. McDeere's still looking at him like—

"Yeah," McDeere says quietly, unblinking. "I do. I do want it."

"Well, there we go," Joey says, and rubs the heel of his hand up the now-straining line of McDeere's cock hard enough to make McDeere suck in a breath through his nose. "You got something here you need somebody to take care of for you, and here I am. Don't overthink it, Mitch."

"Right," McDeere says, dry. "Nothing to see here."

"Exactly," Joey says, and then opens McDeere's slacks one-handed, grips the nape of McDeere's neck, and gets to work.

* * *

**four.**

It takes the better part of a day for Joey to come around, after.

Not to open his eyes. He does that a couple times, lashes fluttering, hazy unfocused stare pointed at nothing. But he's back under within seconds. He doesn't even know Mitch is in the room.

That should be a good thing. It _is_ a good thing.

It just doesn't feel like it to Mitch.

Without Joey there— _really_ there, not just lying in the bed all pale and silent—there's nothing to do but wait. There's nothing to do but sit there, increasingly and painfully aware of exactly how much Mitch wants him to wake the hell up.

He's okay. Sal brought a doctor around, some guy Joey apparently keeps on retainer. The blood got washed off, clean white bandages taped in place instead. He's going to look like shit for a week or two, but the Russians hadn't had him long enough to do real damage. He's fine.

But it's hard to believe that, looking at him like this. Looking at him without him looking back, without some snide smug expression on his face, unmoving.

Mitch isn't sure he's ever even seen Joey with his eyes closed before. Closed for real, not just shut for a handful of seconds out of frustration or exhaustion, a show of pointed dismay. Or—

Or when Mitch has a hand closed around his dick. Joey lets his eyes fall shut then, too.

But Mitch has never seen him asleep. The first time Joey jerked him off set the tone; three times since, and it's always been like that. Conspicuously undemanding, take it or leave it. _Don't overthink it._ The second time, when Mitch had touched him back—that had earned Mitch a sharp look, steady even words: _don't do me any favors_. Joey hadn't actually stopped him, not that time, not the next time. But Mitch has developed a pretty good sense for when a case is lost, and some of them are over before opening statements.

There's never been a bed involved. There probably never will be.

And even if there had been, Joey wouldn't have looked like this while he lay in it. Pale, except where the bruises are coming up dark. Faint wheeze in his breathing from the broken nose. Curled in on himself, as much as he can be given the state of his ribs, like even with Joey down for the count, his body knows it's hurt.

Mitch sits, and watches him, and waits.

And then, finally, Joey wakes up.

Mitch has his elbows braced on his knees, and he's staring absently at the floor between his feet; he doesn't even know it's happened until Joey grates out, "Fuck're you doin' here?"

Mitch jerks his head up and comes halfway out of his chair in the same motion, and then stops, and clears his throat.

"Joey," he says, inane.

Joey gives him an unimpressed look. His eyelids are still heavy, his eyes half-shut, but it's him, awake, aware. And something in Mitch's chest that's been knotted up tight since the moment he realized where Joey was, who had him, starts to ease an inch at a time.

Joey shifts a little, sucks in a sharp breath and grimaces, and Mitch takes the step between the chair and the bed like he's been yanked on a string, helpless to stop it.

"Careful, careful," he says, hoping distantly that it comes out scolding instead of relieved, or even—god forbid—gentle.

He gets a hand under the nape of Joey's neck, his shoulder, and helps him move up against the pillows without fucking himself up. It's a stupid, unnecessary, nursemaiding gesture; he tells himself that five or six times, but doesn't manage to stop until Joey's settled halfway comfortably. And staring up at him, eyes increasingly clear, increasingly sharp, but Mitch tries to ignore that part.

"Feel like shit," Joey rasps.

"Yeah, you look like shit, too," Mitch informs him, and catches himself about to clear his throat again—not because he needs to, not even because he's been sitting here for about ten hours without speaking, but psychosomatic, just from listening to Joey try to talk.

He reaches for the bedside table instead. Itching with idleness, searching mindlessly for something to do, he'd gotten himself a glass of water about four hours ago. It's lukewarm now, ice gone, but that's probably better for Joey's throat anyway, and jesus, he is never going to be able to forget having had that thought cross his mind.

"Water?"

"Sure," Joey croaks.

So Mitch digs himself in deeper, deeper. Picks up the glass, slides a hand he hopes comes off as clinical into Joey's hair; helps him lift his head, supports it, and holds the glass for him at the same time.

"Fuck you, my arms aren't broken," Joey says, bruised face doing its level best to draw up into a sneer. But when he lifts a hand to grip the glass, as if to take it away from Mitch, his fingers are trembling, and he can't actually muster the force to pull it out of Mitch's grasp.

"Right," Mitch agrees, dry, and doesn't let go.

He keeps the glass steady, at a low angle. Joey lies there, mouth pinched shut, eyes shuttered—but then he breathes out slow through his nose and takes a grudging sip, and after that thirst gets the better of him.

When he's done, the glass back in its place and Mitch belatedly remembering to take his goddamn hand out from under Joey's head, Joey says it again: "The fuck are you doing here, McDeere?" And then he pauses, eyes narrowing, and says more slowly, "What the fuck were you doing _there_?"

So he does remember.

Mitch looks away. "Sal didn't have any leads. The Russians hold some pretty significant territory. He couldn't be sure where they'd taken you. Ray—knows a guy who knows a guy. He got an address—"

"Sure, fine," Joey says. "So what the fuck were _you_ doing there?"

Mitch swallows.

"Jesus Christ, Mitch. If this entire thing went south and Karpov had me whacked, you probably could've made a break for it. You realize that, right? But now he knows who you are, he knows you're not just some flunky, and you've pissed him off—"

"I pissed him off when I identified Kurylenko in court," Mitch says, as evenly as he can. "I don't think he's planning to let that go anytime soon."

"Yeah? And what about Ray, huh?"

Mitch doesn't answer.

He can't. It _was_ stupid—Ray was willing, but that doesn't mean it wasn't stupid. Maybe Joey's right; maybe Karpov would've bought that it was Joey who was his real problem, that Mitch was incidental. Maybe the quarry had been a message for Joey as much as for Mitch. But if there was any chance of that, Mitch has just set it on fire. And as a bonus, he's put Ray on Karpov's radar, too. He's—

He's just made it all worse. He's gotten them both tangled up in this even further, and Tammy by proxy. As if they hadn't needed Joey, his protection, already; now they're genuinely as good as dead without it.

And the worst part is, Mitch can't claim he didn't know that when he did it. He's spent hours sitting here, hours trying to decide whether part of him isn't—isn't _glad_ , somehow, twisted up and backwards, for the excuse. For the justification to stop trying to get clear of this, to stop trying to get away from Joey. For the rationalization: he's just doing what he needs to do to stay alive. Spending even more time with Joey, sticking it out long enough to help Joey take down Karpov, it's just what he has to do to keep himself safe. It isn't anything he'd be doing if he had a choice.

It almost hangs together. Except for the part where he's the one who took that choice away from himself, and he can't even convince himself he regrets it.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, and lets himself look at Joey at last, catalogues the hot shivering sensation that goes through him when he does, and god, he is so fucked.

"Ray's fine," he says aloud.

"Right," Joey says.

Joey's staring at him. Mitch used to hate being looked at like that—used to think Joey's eyes were like fucking ice, used to be grateful to get out from underneath them. He never understood quite why the weight of them, the sensation of Joey's full attention, got under his skin like that.

He's starting to have a pretty good idea, now.

"And you helped Sal figure out how to find me," Joey summarizes, "and went along for the ride, and then sat here for fuck knows how long waiting for me to come to so you could—hold a glass of water for me."

Mitch swallows. He should look away, he thinks dimly. He should look away, and get up off the edge of the bed, and leave.

**(and one.)**

He doesn't do it.

"Joey," he says helplessly, voice strained. A warning, maybe, because the next thing he does is reach out—not for the nape of Joey's neck, this time, or the back of his head, but for one swollen bruise-dark cheek, for the faintly stubbled line of Joey's jaw.

Joey doesn't move. And god, it feels good to touch him.

Mitch was maybe the fifth one into the room, when they found Joey; but he was the first to cross it. He touched Joey's face then, too, but it was covered in blood, and for a long, long second, Mitch hadn't been able to tell whether Joey was still breathing. This—this is better, reassurance Mitch hadn't known he was going to need as badly as he does.

"McDeere," Joey says, and that's definitely a warning.

But Mitch has never heeded Joey's warnings before, and he doesn't particularly want to start now.

Mitch leans in over him, and kisses him.

They've jerked each other off, fingered each other—Joey even fucked him once, quick and furious and silent, without saying a word to him. But they never kissed.

Joey's mouth is hot—swollen, split, stitches in the bottom lip scratchy against Mitch's mouth. Mitch was going to keep it slow anyway; holding Joey down and sucking on his tongue wouldn't have said the things Mitch is trying to say. But he's even more cautious than he needs to be, and certainly more cautious than Joey would ever ask him to be.

He's gentle. He wants to be gentle. Nothing else in Joey's world is gentle, but Mitch can be the exception, and he wants Joey to let him.

Joey's still, underneath him. He doesn't kiss back. He doesn't shove Mitch away either, but considering he got the shit beaten out of him today, that isn't evidence Mitch would rely on in court.

At last, Mitch figures he's made his argument, and pulls away. And for an instant, drawing back, he catches Joey's eyes closed—before Joey opens them to glare at him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Joey spits, hoarse.

Mitch looks at him, rubs his thumb absently against the prickle of Joey's half-grown stubble, and then kisses him again.

Joey doesn't twist out from under his mouth, doesn't bite him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he grits out next, when Mitch gives him the opportunity.

Mitch can't help the way his mouth twitches. "What, you don't know?" he murmurs, and Joey's glare goes flat, a second before Mitch kisses him again.

Again. Again.

"Come on," Mitch whispers against the corner of Joey's mouth, the sixth time. "Come on, tell me to stop."

Joey's breath catches. He's silent, tense underneath Mitch, for a long second.

But when he does speak, all he says is, "You're a goddamn idiot."

After the next kiss, his hand does come up, but not to push Mitch off him. He grips Mitch's shoulder instead, fingers clutching convulsively.

"I told you," he says, words muttered into the side of Mitch's jaw. "Karpov's not going to kill you."

It had been half a threat, last time he'd said it. Or—or at least Mitch had thought it was. But now hearing it again makes something twist in Mitch's chest. Because he sure as shit hadn't been willing to let Karpov kill Joey.

So maybe it's not just him. Maybe he isn't the only one who's discovered he's got something he wants to take care of.

"Yeah," he says aloud, and slides a hand into Joey's hair, curling his fingers a little, hanging on. "Yeah, sure. You're going to do it yourself."

He doesn't believe that anymore; he's pretty sure Joey doesn't either.

"That's right," Joey says unsteadily, and Mitch presses their temples together, listens to the echoes of everything Joey's not saying instead, and then kisses him again.


End file.
